A Creative Man
by MoldyMangoes
Summary: Molly is attacked, Sherlock takes an easy case, feelings are reevaluated.
1. Chapter 1

AN: Hey, look, I managed to fix my formatting problem. Turns out I'm _not_ that inept.

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Sherlock Holmes was a creative man. This was a quality born out of necessity in order to weather the storms of boredom that plagued him. Creative experimentation ranged from tests in teeth enamel to electric shock to variations in pond organisms in every park in London. (The organisms were some of his favorite; all cataloged in their slides and listed by district.)

So when Sherlock got wind that Molly Hooper was studying the body of a man who'd been unable to grow finger nails during his lifetime, it seemed an excellent introduction to some new studies and further research.

He even brought his own little cooler to store the fingers he anticipated receiving.

The lab was his first stop, where he could deposit his coat and ask Molly if she'd allow him the honor of severing the fingers himself. The problem, however, was the absence of Molly in the lab.

Two techs looked up from their respective projects, one of whom was wasting his time with a dirty pipette, when Sherlock banged through the door.

His gaze swept around the room. "Molly said she'd be up here."

"You just missed her," one of the techs said. "Hooper got called down for an identification. She's in the morgue."

Sherlock issued a quick, distracted, quarter-hearted thank you as he pivoted back out the door, the cooler clattering against it as he went.

If she was already down there, this would all go much faster.

That was what he'd expected, he thought, as he traversed the fluorescent lit, scarcely populated halls when he finally reached a door with the little window on it, the room with the John Doe. He'd inquired about that particular body yesterday, as it was the only one requiring an identification and there couldn't be too many who'd miss a man who'd once run with a gang before taking a stabbing to the throat. While detachedly sad about the loss of life in general, Molly admitted relief over the obvious cause of death, as she'd not had it in her to perform another postmortem.

Sherlock was right, of course, that he knew Molly was in this room. He went to open the door when a spark of conscience slapped him on the wrist. His hand dropped.

It's an identification, he said to himself, or perhaps it was John's disembodied voice saying the words. The man Molly was speaking with, judging by his weight, height, age, and coloring, was presumably the dead man's brother. This, John told him without being at all present, was a sensitive, delicate, and personal matter. Molly is kind. Let Molly take her time.

Sherlock watched through the window as she remorsefully folded back the sheet. He watched the man tense in the violent way that high-strung men with aggression issues typically do.

Something not right set him into alarm.

A long time ago, when Sherlock was just a boy in school, he'd had one friend; Redbeard. The canine listened with patience to everything Sherlock ever said, including the off-hand insults and childish temper tantrums. Despite not understanding speech in the way only dogs could, he showered his human friend with more love and appreciation than he'd ever known and followed him closer than his own shadow. They explored as far as a child and dog could go when frontiering the countryside.

This did not end when Sherlock went to school. Redbeard was usually confined to the Holmes' property by the gate that stretched around the yard, but Redbeard could be an escape artist when determined and had managed to follow Sherlock's scent all the way to the school grounds. The usual commotion among children presented with an animal at school was instant. Kids leapt from the playground to approach and Sherlock, having been engrossed in a book, finally looked up to see his dog's nose mopping the concrete in search of him, rust-colored fur shining in the sunlight.

He'd jumped up in excitement and noticed the way Redbeard caught everyone's attention. He felt proud and a little bit smug. 'That's right, that's my dog, isn't he brilliant?' and knew everyone would agree as they continued to happily pet the red setter. At least until he saw one boy, a year higher, a foot taller, and possessing a name Sherlock never remembered. He was a boy who prided himself on being the playground bully in the school, known for bouts of cruel tantrums.

He'd neared the dog and tried to grab his ear, but because dogs have the uncanny ability to smell evil, even in shitty little boys, Redbeard turned his long-snouted muzzle and nipped him.

The children scattered. The boy who'd been bit became tense and angry and began to sweat profusely, gnashing his teeth between jaw clenches and neanderthalic fist balling. Sherlock was too far away to prevent what he saw coming, but he ran like a bullet anyway, book forgotten on the pavement as the other boy reared his leg back and kicked the dog to the ground, delivering another blow to his barrel-like setter chest.

Sherlock was on him like a rabid wolverine, tackling him to the ground and kicking up a storm of fists and feet. The children came bustling excitedly back, circling around them to witness a good fisticuffs and, though Sherlock hadn't realized it at the time, they'd cheered for him.

In the end, faculty intervened. Sherlock had literally come out on top, having pinned the older boy to the ground after exhausting himself from wailing on him. He'd been suspended for a week, but Redbeard didn't face any trouble and slept on his bed after Sherlock received a shockingly light scolding and rather a large amount of praise.

That was how Sherlock first learned to detect potentially dangerous signals in body language. It was too difficult to read humans any other way, seeing as they all say things they don't mean. It was also the catalyst for his father insisting that Sherlock learn to box.

So when Molly covered the body from view and came around the table, either brave, oblivious, or both, he'd felt his breath catch, hoping he'd be wrong, but knowing he wasn't. He began to open the door and everything happened very quickly.

Molly was saying something, probably softly and with empathy, placing a hand modestly on the man's shoulder. Like a coiled spring, he started violently and lashed out with a fist, striking her solidly across the face. She hardly made a sound beyond her body's painful crash to the floor.

The seconds it took to reach him were lost in the red that painted Sherlock's vision. He must've dropped the cooler on the way, favoring the feeling of his bare fists exacting retribution as they had years ago on a country school ground.

He couldn't help but grunt at the hard, swift impact when he landed the first blow. There was the satisfying crack of a nose being broken and somewhere, between the hits that followed rapidly and relentlessly, he wondered what else he could break. The man attempted an offense, but Sherlock batted his hands away like flies and gripped him by the front of his coat with one hand while tearing into his obnoxiously puffy coat pocket with the other. He ripped out an ill- concealed knife and threw it to the floor. Seems he runs with the same gang as his dearly departed brother.

It wasn't long before the struggling ceased. There was a weight pulling frantically at Sherlock's arm which had been cocked back for another strike, and the noise cleared from his head to be replaced by the sound of ragged breathing (his), strained breathing (the subhuman), and Molly's cries as she begged, "Stop, please, he's grieving!"

"He attacked you!" Sherlock shouted at her, outraged beyond belief.

"I know! But you'll kill him if you keep going!"

The arm Molly was clinging to lowered as Sherlock scrutinized his handiwork. It was a blood splattered mess and if Molly hadn't stopped him, only blood work would have proven his identity. There was a certain irony in there, he supposed.

Aside from the legal obligation to keep from killing the man, the only thing pulling Sherlock away and leaving the half dead body to slide ungracefully to the floor were the sobs that Molly was trying desperately to control.

A stampede in the hallway served as the only warning before the doors flew open and a flock of security and two male nurses burst in. They assessed the situation and, to Sherlock's faint amusement, the security approached him with forced menace to disguise their thinly veiled fear. He looked over at Molly, gloves missing from her hands and the mobile phone clutched in her grip. "Not him," she said. "Him." she gestured to the near unresponsive man on the floor.

They seemed terribly relieved by this as they avoided looking at the actual dead body in the room, and the nurses helped the battered man to A&amp;E. Sherlock wondered if he'd done enough damage to send him to Royal London and out of Barts before deciding that he didn't really care.

"You alright?" Molly asked, adjusting the sheet over the corpse where it had come askew.

He pulled her away from it, hand on her elbow. She jerked away forcefully, surprising him. "Don't ask ridiculous questions, Molly, clearly I'm not the one injured. You need to get looked at. Preferably before the yard comes along."

"I'm fine."

Sherlock didn't think she looked "fine" at all. "You're attempting to deal with a body while your hands are bare."

Molly froze before yanking her hands from the morgue gurney and rushing to the sink where she soaped up diligently.

Sherlock requisitioned some lingering morgue assistants from outside to deal with the body and the mess while he escorted Molly upstairs. She resisted at first, trying to assure him that she was perfectly fine, but he wouldn't hear it until the doctor he'd forced on her patched her up and relayed "Bit swollen, put some ice on that, get some rest, and no, she's not concussed. May I have a look at that right hook?"

Molly was released with a small bandage on the cut that adorned the bruising swell of her cheekbone and an ice pack on the back of her head. Sherlock picked at the gauze covering his knuckles.

They had coffee in the cafeteria.

"You shouldn't have done that," Molly said, sipping her coffee and nursing the side of her head with a cold compress.

Sherlock couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Shouldn't have done what? Defended you?"

"You nearly ended him!" She raised her voice shakily, calming back down when other staff glanced over.

Sherlock scoffed and said derisively, "Oh, I'm sure, because the world would be such a lesser place without a pusillanimous gang member who takes his anger out on women half his size." He squinted accusingly at the bandage on her face. "He deserved it."

"He was overwhelmed. Shocked with grief."

"I'm shocked with grief."

Molly gave him a raised eyebrow. "What are you grieving?"

"The apparent death of your intelligence."

"Sherlock..."

"Has this ever happened before?" he asked, feeling strangely remorseful if she were to say yes. Remorseful that he had to ask at all, because he would have noticed if there'd been any violence against her if he'd ever properly paid attention to begin with.

The way she tilted her head up in thought almost alarmed him. "Well, not really."

"'Not really'?"

"Someone grabbed me once, but that was years ago. Bruises on my arm for a week." She shrugged and sipped her coffee again. "It wasn't a big deal, I guess."

Sherlock couldn't stop the flood of annoyance that pooled inside of him. Was she so willing to accept violence against her? To make excuses for the offenders? To offer herself up as some sort of punching bag for the release of stress for the bereaved?

How was that okay?

Before a torrent of words escaped him on the subject, a chair was pulled out at their little table and DI Lestrade plopped himself down. "So, I heard there was an incident and of course Sherlock Holmes had to be involved somehow-" he stopped talking when he got a good look at Molly. "Christ, Molly, what exactly happened?"

Before Molly could open her mouth, Sherlock launched into recanting the entire episode of what had gone on downstairs. He didn't want Molly lessening the severity of it by sugar coating and expressing pity, so he made sure to be extra long winded and thorough. She couldn't get a word in edge-wise.

He was let off the hook, not that he'd been in any sort of trouble in the first place, and Molly hitched a ride home with Lestrade. Before leaving, she'd meekly told him thank you.

Lestrade had waited patiently by the exit.

"What for?" said Sherlock as Molly got up from her seat.

She blushed, saying, "You know what for."

She later maintained that he'd still overreacted, but that hadn't lessened the pride that swelled in his chest.

Sherlock had gone home that day, fingerless, but for his own. When he slept that night he saw Molly's face, a bruise blossoming against the stark whiteness of her skin and she acted perfectly okay with it. Sherlock woke, troubled.

Two days later, he went to see her at Barts in the lab.

Her skin was mottled with purple and blue. The swelling had gone down, but the colors were at their peak. "You look terrible, Molly," he said.

She frowned. "Thanks."

And then without preamble, Sherlock asked, "Did Tom ever hurt you? Or perhaps a different boyfriend?"

"What?" she turned her full, gaping attention on him. "Geez, no, of course not. Why are you asking that?"

"The nonchalance you seem to express with regards to violence on your person might indicate that it was a usual thing," Sherlock said, taking care to keep his voice neutral. "I'd like to be assured that's not the case; however, if it is-"

"It's not."

"Oh. Well, good," he nodded, surprised and wondering at the immense relief that doused him.

Molly glanced down for a second at the paperwork she'd been filling out. She took a breath that sounded a little more foreboding to Sherlock than it should. "I can understand your reasoning," she said. "For years, if anyone ignored me, or insulted me or hurt my feelings, I always let it slide and made excuses for them because I'd gotten so used to it."

Sherlock didn't need to be a detective to know she was talking about him. Something like remorse reared it's ghastly little head inside of him.

"So, thanks for your concern, but I'm perfectly fine. It was an isolated incident." She smiled briefly at him and went back to the paperwork.

Feeling oddly bereft at the way Molly had shut down the conversation, Sherlock couldn't help but stand awkwardly before her. He turned to leave with the intention of sorting out the unfinished, hollow feeling that lingered in his chest when Molly called out to him.

"Your box is in the freezer, just there," she said. When Sherlock opened the door to the unit she'd indicated, he saw the little cooler he'd left behind, sitting among jars and petri dishes. After flipping open the top he discovered four fingers and one thumb, all without fingernails.

The grin that cracked his face was instantaneous.

It was the following day when Sherlock met up with John at the scene of a death that he'd been assured was not murder, that anything about the previous happenings were mentioned again.

"So I heard you beat the shit out of a documented gang member," John said conversationally as Sherlock crouched next to the body of a dead forty-six year old man.

They were crowded among police and yellow tape at the base of some formidable concrete steps. The financial building to which they led towered over them, casting them in darker shadows than the clouds that filled the sky.

Marcus Mircoat would never see the sky again, as he'd been found very much dead at daybreak in an expensive suit by a passing jogger.

"Heard he deserved it, too," John continued when Sherlock said nothing. He was obviously fishing for gossip. Too much time with Mary and her friends, perhaps.

"Yes," Sherlock curtly replied, hoping John would drop the subject. "What would you say was the cause of this man's death?"

"I'd say the obvious, that it's a broken neck, but you're going to get all clever and tell me and the rest of the Met that we're all wrong. What made you do it?"

"Do what? I didn't kill him."

"I'm not talking about him, I'm talking about the pulpy mess you'd sent to Royal London," John crouched down next to him. "He was worse off than the American you'd tossed out the window. I'm not saying he didn't have what was coming to him, but how are you not getting charged for completely losing it?"

"He was also wanted on homicide charges. Two birds with one stone, quite efficient, don't you think?"

"And what did Molly think?"

Sherlock stood and harshly snapped off his gloves. "It doesn't matter what Molly thinks," he snapped. "For god's sake, John, we're at a crime scene, not a hair salon with Mrs. Hudson gossiping like old biddies and swapping stories."

John stood as well. "Well, none of those old biddies pounded the face off a street thug. Tell me when they do and I'll join them in getting a perm."

Sherlock scowled at him which was rewarded with John's faux innocent stare.

Lestrade joined them, heedless of Sherlock's irritation. "So, got anything other than 'he fell down the stairs', or can I wrap this up now?"

"He was murdered," Sherlock replied, irritation melting into more happiness than a man should be with that announcement.

Lestrade's face twisted in resignation as he ran a hand through his silver hair. "Alright. How do you figure?"

"He fell down the stairs, but he wasn't pushed; wasn't even conscious when he went down." Sherlock checked their faces for a flicker of understanding. Finding none, he continued, "What do you do when you fall?" He stepped back and held his hands out. "You bend your knees, you hold your hands out to catch yourself. There's no evidence on his knees where his trousers would have taken more damage than the rest of his suit and there isn't a scratch on his palms, but his face sustained the most damage - well, aside from his unfortunate neck. The forward momentum of his fall would have assured facial injury, indicating that he lost consciousness at the top of the steps."

"He might've had an underlying condition and fainted," John supplied. Sherlock shook his head.

"That fails to explain why he was here, which is the important question. He didn't work at this building according to your preliminary notes, but he died here between the hours of one and three in the morning when the place is locked up, wearing the same clothes as the day previous if those stains are anything to go by. So, why was he here?" Sherlock turned solely to Lestrade. "Check the security cameras and get a list of everyone he's had contact with in that building yesterday and you'll have your killer. In the mean time, best to get a full tox screen at Barts and figure out what's swimming in his system."

Due to time and the fascinating effects of rigor mortis, Sherlock was forced to wait for the results of the postmortem. Molly had taken one look at the suited body when it first arrived before saying "Oh, a working stiff. Now he's just stiff,"

No one had laughed. She'd coughed politely and resumed her duties.

A day after the autopsy, Molly was summoned to the morgue again. It was a call from a good friend of Mr. Mircoat coming to confirm the body, as the man's family were virtually nonexistent. Sherlock had been looking at coagulated blood samples when she announced that she was leaving, and without really considering why, he'd grabbed his coat and followed her.

"He's his friend, Sherlock," Molly said in the lift. "Don't interrogate him unless you absolutely have a reason to. And wait until I'm done, yeah?"

That was when Sherlock realized that he'd not even considered questioning the man. Sure, he would have thought of it later, but he couldn't help but think of why he'd actually followed Molly. She still looked beaten, the fresh scar over the colorful bruise still splashed on her face. Her lab coat was two sizes too big. She appeared terribly small and far too delicate.

He shook himself. That felt like a massive flood of caring, and a bit too much of it.

Questioning. He didn't intend to do so. At this stage, every possible acquaintance was a suspect and the best way to alert the real murderer was to give away the game. Letting them know the death was being treated as homicide would be amateurish. So he hung back near the lift when Molly met the man, and then waited outside the door where he could discreetly peer through the window as she spoke with him. He appeared at least ten years younger than Mircoat.

Molly was sympathetic and comforting as always, but there were no tears. There was an acute sadness, of course, but that seemed to stem from the man's acceptance of Mircoat's death over the past few days.

The door opened and Molly and the other man emerged, passing two assistants on their way to re-store the body. Sherlock stood straighter, pushing away from the wall where he'd been leaning, and caught Molly's attention. He plastered on a very fake smile.

"Ah, Molly. I was looking for you," he began, gaze flicking over at the man at her side. Expensive suit, like Mircoat. Meticulously styled hair, manicured nails, polished shoes, and a designer briefcase. There was a prominent callous on his right middle finger from extensive writing, eyes tired from long, late nights. Drinking, not working. A lawyer? No. Considering his connection to Mircoat, it was far more probable that he worked in finances.

Oh, this was too easy.

Molly was looking bemusedly at him. "Um..."

"Aren't you that detective fellow?" the man pointed, recognition bubbling in his eyes.

A muted light glowed through the pocket of Molly's lab coat. Her mobile was on silent, of course, so the only indication of it going off was Sherlock's eyes briefly turning towards it. Molly picked up on it and begged to be excused. "It's Stamford," she murmured to herself, settling a cool distance away.

Sherlock wasn't going to waste this opportunity. He extended his hand, "Sherlock Holmes. Are you a friend of Molly's?" He looked at Molly as he said this, but she was too distracted by her call to notice his act.

"Andrew Wellington," the man said, taking Sherlock's proffered hand. "And no, we've only just met. I'm actually here under far more unfortunate circumstances. We are in a morgue, after all. I heard you were actually called out to the scene? My friend- his name was Marcus-"

"Marcus Mircoat. Took an awful fall down the steps, yes, the police _did_ waste my time with that despite what obviously killed him. I'm terribly sorry for your loss."

"Thank you," Wellington said, and Sherlock wasn't planning on being friendly enough to try his given name.

"Was he a client of yours?" asked Sherlock.

"Excuse me?"

"You work for Bethel Forrester as a financial consultant and broker, yes?"

Wellington stilled, at a momentary loss.

Sherlock inclined his head. "Molly was holding your business card."

"Oh," he laughed, nervously. Sherlock tried not to intimidate the man, despite the urge to get outright accusatory. Wellington cleared his throat and reclaimed some confidence. "Yes, he was a client, but I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss his finances. Policies to adhere to and all." He smiled. "I know what you do, Mr. Holmes, but you're not, in fact, police, are you?

"I'm not, no," he conceded, giving the friendliest smile he could muster. "I was actually considering an account. You can't be too careful when it comes to saving for retirement, can you?"

"Right..." Just before the detective was about to recommend that Wellington can leave now, please, Sherlock followed the path of his eyes which were conspicuously lingering on Molly. "Is she seeing anyone?" he asked Sherlock, suddenly.

No. "Yes."

"Oh. Damn shame, then. Bit of a mark on her face there, but I wonder what she looks like under those frumpy clothes. Oh, sorry, that was a bit rude, wasn't it?" and he laughed obnoxiously.

Fists balled tightly in the pockets of his coat, a familiar and far off ringing, high pitched, lanced through Sherlock's ears. He startled himself with the intensity of it and forced himself to cool. He could analyze the waves of rage rolling off of him later. "Like I said," he sneered, "She's apparently taken."

Molly was saying goodbye repeatedly, attempts to hang up having always been a little awkward. When she did, she rushed over. "I'm so sorry. Mike needs me to-"

"-It's fine, Molly," Sherlock cut her off, still feeling bothered and suddenly off his game. He wanted to leave. Cheeks positively aching, Sherlock turned his terribly forced smile on Molly, saying, "If you would be so kind as to meet me in the lab when you're finished?"

"Oh," she raised her eyebrows at him. "Yeah, sure. I'll see you."

Stiffly, Sherlock nodded once. "Mr. Wellington."

Then he was scowling on his trek through the hospital. In the lift, he sent a text to Lestrade requesting a background check on Andrew Wellington, his mouth severely downturned. He was scowling still when he reached the lab and the disgruntled face never left him the entire time he sat at his microscope, waiting for Molly, and then his expression turned more severe when he realized he'd left her alone to see the man out. Not that he would do anything, he was sure. He was a suspect, nothing was solidly confirmed, it was broad daylight, the building fully staffed, and Molly was supposedly seeing someone. Why had he said that?

He hated the man. He had the overly happy act down to an art, the sycophantic charms aimed at his employers, he was sure, and the gall to pretend that every man was his best mate and let's all head out to the pub and watch football, eh?

"Guess who's going to be collaborating in new cell death research?" said Molly, sitting across the table. Sherlock hadn't heard her come in. After getting his attention, she pointed triumphantly to herself. "I am. Cell death in tumors, mainly. We'll be sharing research with some of the oncologists, and we're getting a brand new electron microscope and retiring the old one. They'll even train me to use it."

She was smiling widely, a faint blush on her cheeks. Molly always flushed so vibrantly.

"When will the tox screen results be ready?" asked Sherlock, pretending to ignore her news entirely.

The smile of hers wilted. "They can take weeks, Sherlock, but since we sort of know what to look for, hopefully only one week. Prescription drugs, right?"

"Hmm," he hummed in confirmation, resigned into his forced patience.

Over the next few days, Sherlock was forced to take a few simple side cases while Lestrade updated him on Andrew Wellington's pristine record. He'd also brought him a copy of the security footage of the building, showing Mircoat trudging sluggishly up the stairs where he waited for nearly half an hour before attempting to leave. He'd seized up and keeled over, meeting his end.

Dropping in at Barts everyday and staying longer than normal became habit. Sometimes John went with him, but was usually otherwise engaged with taking care of his newborn daughter. Mary kicked him out every now and then, for which Sherlock was grateful. And many times, Sherlock found himself in the morgue not to observe any bodies or execute an experiment, but to simply observe Molly.

He hadn't meant to.

She would be called away for identifications. Had she always been tasked with that? Was this something she'd been placing on her shoulders more often, or was it something he'd simply failed to notice?

He didn't know and he didn't ask.

What he did know was that when she was called away, he followed. Sherlock was never blatant about it, always hanging back, feeling unready to name the twinging in his chest when he thought about the time she'd been alone with that man who might've killed her. (Jim Moriarty had caused many deaths, but at least he'd never struck her.) Ghosts of that feeling flittered in his chest when he'd watch her leave and his feet would naturally, wordlessly, carry him with her. He'd wait outside the door, every time.

He'd listen to the sobs and the screams and the occasional vomiting as a loved one had their last shreds of hope -their last echo of denial- ripped away by seeing the departed before them, faces white and gaunt where the blood no longer flowed. He would listen to Molly console and assist and apologize for the world's wrongs as though the burden belonged to her.

He never remained by the door when she helped the bereaved out.

When she came back into the lab, often red-eyed, she would see him continuing with his experiments as if he'd never left. She would go back to her work as if she'd never left. It struck him, then, just how strong she was. How able. How willing, how kind.

How alone.

How unfair.

To make things worse, he'd had another dream about her. It was a fuzzy, disjointed dream, but she'd gotten married in it to a faceless man. There was white and wedding bells and cheers until Sherlock was suddenly alone, left behind with the quiet on the grounds of a church yard and wondering how he'd managed to be so terribly blind and obstinate. Wondering how a heartless man could hurt in the place that should, by definition, be empty.

He didn't sleep on cases, but he'd been forced to, seeing as some of his results were only dragging on. He called John that morning, eager as all hell to do something, so he didn't send a text that might potentially go ignored.

"What makes you suspect him?" John asked.

"Because he, as they say, 'jumped the gun'," Sherlock replied. "He immediately assumed I was looking for information regarding Mircoat's finances and arrogantly assured me that I would get none."

"Did he say anything else?"

Sherlock's lips curled at the memory of a leer towards Molly. "He got snide with me."

They met, again, at the scene of the crime. Sherlock slipped his friend two short lock picks, asked John if he remembered what he'd been taught, and they made their way up the stairs, passing a fountain and overly kept hedges until they were inside the building, for Sherlock had an appointment and John was briefed and ready to play along.

"Mr. Holmes, so good to see you again," Wellington greeted boisterously as they stepped into his office. It was a clear day and the sun shone brightly against the white expanse of the walls. There was a cabinet on one end full of drawers, but Sherlock wasn't interested in that. He was much more interested in the locked file drawer in Wellington's desk.

"Mr. Wellington." They shook hands. "Allow me to introduce my friend and colleague, John Watson."

"The famous blogger," Wellington greeted him as well. "It's an absolute honor, I must say. This office has never seen celebrities within its walls before, but I'd be lying if I said it hasn't seen an awful lot of money."

"Well I'm sure they'll be delighted to see a few hundred thousand pounds more." John's eyes to widened. "Of course, I need to get a feel for this company before I transfer any more than that."

Sherlock was lying. He definitely did not have that much money.

"Oh yes, of course. What would you like to know?"

"Services. First of all, I don't like to fill out forms."

"Alright."

"I don't like to get ink on my hands, you see. Rather delicate skin."

"Okay." Wellington looked a tad wary, but kept on. He handed various account pamphlets to the detective, who passed them over to John without a glance.

"And the other thing, you see, is-" Sherlock coughed. "Excuse me, is that-" and he coughed again. Violently. He continued to hack and cough and sputter like a sick man and John pretended to worry, slapping him on the back like an overgrown colicky baby.

"Are you quite alright, Mr. Holmes?" Wellington asked, half out of his seat.

"Water," wheezed Sherlock in full blown theatrics. "I need water. Not tap, I need filtered, maybe bottled. Can you perhaps direct me?"

"Of course!" And Wellington was up and guiding Sherlock out of the office as he shook in his episode of fakery, simultaneously ordering John to stay put and they'll be back in a moment.

John slipped the lock picks out of his coat and got to work.

Meanwhile, in a spacious break room, Sherlock was sucking down a bottle of water. In all honesty he did need it. Surviving on coffee wasn't particularly healthy, among his other bodily abuses.

"I do apologize for that," Sherlock said in supposed earnest. "Long term smoking is finally taking its toll, I suppose."

"Those things'll kill you, that's for sure," the other man agreed.

"As John frequently reminds me."

A slyness crept into Wellington's eyes as he sat down abruptly, opposite from Sherlock at the little white round table. "Speaking of your friends," Wellington began, looking like a pal with a secret to share. "Have you got the hots for that little morgue bird? Molly Hooper?"

Instantly, Sherlock didn't feel like acting anymore. He continued regardless. The game was on. He scoffed. "Doctor Hooper is something of a colleague and I'm really rather married to my work."

"You tryin' to cheat on your job, then? Cause you told me she was seeing someone, so then I thought I'd ask her myself and she told me she wasn't."

"Maybe she's the one trying for an affair."

"She doesn't seem the type. All sweet and innocent, isn't she?"

Sherlock told himself not to haul off and punch him. He didn't like where this conversation was going at all. Not. One. Bit.

The ringing in his head came back.

"So then," the man continued, and Sherlock really did hate his name because it reminded him of beef wellingtons and rain boots, "I asked her out. We had lunch and we're having dinner tomorrow at Locanda Locatelli. If she doesn't put out, then I'm sure I can persuade her by the third date. Those sorts of women are suckers for a man who finally pays attention to-"

"-Stay away from Doctor Hooper."

There was a brief silence. "So you do have it in for her," said Wellington, and Sherlock wanted to slap the grin off his face.

The ringing was deafening and he could feel it begin to pound itself into a migraine. This moron... Sherlock was, for a moment, under the impression that he was being taunted, somehow. There would have been a minute cause for alarm were that the case, but it was clear that the man was a complete show-off. And a complete idiot, attempting to connect with Sherlock in some ridiculous, primitive, stone-age way, blathering and bragging about his potential conquests (not that Molly would fall for him at all) over bottles of water instead of a pint.

The chair squeaked across the tiled floor as Sherlock stood to his full height and towered over him. "As much as I appreciate your attempts at candid personal sharing..." He paused, and with calm malevolence of low pitch, said, "No, actually, I don't appreciate it. I'm going to tell you something very important that may be crucial to your physical well-being; stay away from Molly Hooper. I'll not repeat it a third time. Shall we go back to your office now?"

It was clear that any friendly pretenses on Sherlock's behalf were off. Wellington seemed to have taken the hint (or threat, really), and they waded back to his office through thick, suffocating anger.

John was lounging in his chair, feet propped on the desk, feigning a nap. He made a show of waking up, sniffing and wiping drool away from the corner of his mouth and Sherlock, through his fuming, felt a rush of pride that he was John Watson's best friend.

"John, we're done here."

"Oh, good."

And they rushed out, just short of an actual run.

Sherlock was still angry when they marched down the stairs outside. John was having a grand time, missing the thrill of snooping in places he shouldn't, but Sherlock was busy vibrating in his attempts to quell the bizarre feelings still running through his veins.

"Sherlock, we're out of there, you can drop the standoffish act, now," John said, his pace brisk as he tried to keep up with the taller man.

"That man's a bigger arsehole than I am," Sherlock muttered loudly. "What did you find, assuming you managed to get the lock?"

"I got the lock just fine, thanks for the vote of confidence. Will you slow down a moment? What's got into you?"

"Nothing's got into me. Why would something get into me?"

"I don't know, but if anyone's being a bigger arsehole than you, it's you."

Sherlock whirled around when they reached the street. "How does that even work?"

John shrugged. "Just get a cab. We need to get to Barts and bother the hell out of Molly for that tox screen."

Unfortunately, Molly was out when they arrived. Texts received no response, so he abandoned John in the lab and searched the cafeteria and coffee shop. With no luck there, he checked the morgue and then went to the women's locker room to wait.

She always deposited her bag in her locker.

He paced outside the door for fifteen minutes going on fifteen hours, the cab ride with John replaying in his head.

_He'd shoved his mobile into Sherlock's hand. "I'm the last person who'd be an expert in finances, but these are records of private transactions with what I'm assuming are client accounts."_

_Sherlock had swiped through the images. One after the other was a picture of large accounts and hastily scribbled notes. There were doubles of percentage fees and siphoned dividends, highlights of a name he recognized receiving the funds into a foreign bank account. One particularly large amount was from a Marcus M._

_"So Andrew Wellington was skimming money from client accounts," Sherlock said. "Not too much, not enough to be noticed, at least not until Mircoat saw what was going on. How many of these were there?"_

_"Enough to incriminate him. His computer was password protected, so I couldn't check that."_

_"He wouldn't keep these records on his computer. A firm like that, they'd have everyone networked."_

_Sherlock reached the last image before descending into a multitude of baby pictures. "What is... Ohhh."_

_"Yeah. Found that in his briefcase."_

_An image of a prescription bottle filled the screen, and Sherlock could barely contain himself. "Phenobarbitone."_

_"Dangerous stuff."_

_"Hm."_

_"A 'thank you' wouldn't go amiss."_

_And John had looked so damn pleased with himself, so Sherlock hadn't said thank you, but said, "John, you are brilliant," and that was even better._

_"Thanks."_

_"Not as bright as I am, but you have your shining moments."_

_Couldn't let it get to his head, after all._


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, followed and favorited this! This is the last chapter and it's shorter and a bit heavier on the romantic stuff. I plan on following this up with a story called "A Kindled Man", within the next one or two weeks. So look out for it!

* * *

When Molly finally showed up, everything he planned on saying about her date fizzled out of him like a snuffed candle. A colorful paper shopping bag dangled from her arm and her expression was pleased, at least until she noticed him waiting. It morphed into trepidation, so he tried not to dwell on why her smiles had been affecting him more and more, especially when he rarely felt like the one inciting them.

The bag swayed and he glimpsed some sort of dark blue fabric, probably soft and delicate. Probably a dress. Definitely a dress. The kind that a woman would wear to dinner.

"I really need a print out of that toxicity screening, Molly," was apparently the only thing he could say.

"Figured that's what you were going to say. Give me a minute, I'll meet you upstairs."

"I can wait here for y-"

"-I'll meet you upstairs." And she was through the door, leaving Sherlock to stand and stare at where she'd been, wondering if he'd done something wrong. Wondering why he cared if he'd done something wrong. Recognizing that he cared because it was Molly.

He should always be kinder when it comes to Molly. Why is that?

Sherlock went upstairs where he half listened to John's phone conversation with Mary while rifling through expired chemical solutions. Molly entered the lab quietly, a print out in her hand which she passed over to Sherlock.

"He tested positive for alcohol and barbiturates," she said.

Neither man were surprised. "The phenobarbitone in his briefcase," John confirmed.

Molly frowned thoughtfully. "Why would someone have barbiturates in this day and age?"

John looked around Sherlock's shoulder at the print out, saying, "Usually 'cause someone who needs them is allergic to benzodiazepines. I've had to write a prescription before."

"I'll phone Lestrade," said Sherlock, folding the paper into his coat in exchange for his mobile as he made for the door. "None of this explains why Mircoat was there and I intend to find out why."

John followed him out of the lab and they'd gone ten feet before Sherlock halted, Molly's face still in his mind. The flushed, pleased glow that she'd had at the thought of being romantically pursued was nagging him and he knew he'd be ripping it away from her very soon. It wouldn't be the first time. It shouldn't bother him, but it did.

John turned questioningly when he realized he was alone, so Sherlock waved him away. "Go on ahead of me, John. I ...forgot something. I'll meet you on Giltspur."

"You sure?" John asked. "Cause I can-"

"Yes. Go." And Sherlock went banging back into the lab, leaving John throwing his hands up and continuing to the main entrance.

Molly was idly examining the expired solutions that Sherlock had set out. She looked up at him, surprised and seeming at a loss as to his sudden reappearance. A deep smattering of yellow and faint mauve indicated her bruise was healing quickly. "Haven't you got a case to finish up?" she asked when he only stared at her.

What did he come back for? He'd wanted to speak with Molly, but he'd wanted to finish the case. Definitely wanted to finish the case, but he found himself wading in distraction, his mind caught in an undertow that pulled him in the direction of her and all her kindness and compassion that he'd abused so recklessly before. She'd always been kind, he knew that. She'd always deserved happiness and love and all of that romantic drivel, but she also deserved someone to watch out for her and that was something he could do. He could try.

"Sherlock?"

"I wanted to thank you."

Molly went still, eyes glancing around in a search of a secret audience, eyebrows bunched like someone had told a joke she was trying to understand. "Um, you're ...welcome?"

"I don't just mean the print-out. I mean for everything, and for putting up with much of my behavior." He took a breath, feeling horribly exposed. "I know I'm not an easy man to deal with and you deserve nothing I say that is ever cruel to you. And I know I've said things that are cruel."

She was looking at him like he'd spoken Greek. "Do you need something from me?" she asked, very slowly.

"No," he shook his head. After saying what he'd said, he should be content to walk away, let Molly take from it what she would, but her eyes were clouded with a mistrust that beckoned him closer. When he was near, he added, "I just wanted you to know."

_I should kiss her cheek before I go_, he thought.

She still appeared terribly nervous, which had become rather uncommon recently and was now more than unwelcome. Sherlock watched his hand reach up and brush gently along the outer edges of the yellowing bruise that marred her face. Molly flinched. "Does it hurt?"

"Not really, not unless I sleep on it." She cleared her throat and, to his confusion, pulled away. His hand dropped back to his side.

He'd used that hand to ruthlessly punish a man. He'd been violent before her, offering a front row seat to his sudden moment of fury. Of course she didn't want to be near him.

Sherlock tried to smile, but he wasn't sure how it came out. He left as if he'd teleported, the time required to walk through the door somehow vanishing as if he'd never gone into the lab in the first place and he had to collect his bearings beneath the bright fluorescent lights that shone down on him.

Then he was with John again, climbing into a taxi, and then he was with Lestrade outside the building of Bethel Forrester and watching the arrest of Andrew Wellington with cold but victorious eyes.

In a gray NSY interrogation room, Sherlock sat with Lestrade across an uncuffed murderer who seemed rather resigned and unsurprised at having been caught. Then Sherlock asked him just how he'd slipped the phenobarbitone to Mircoat.

It was all very mundane. Wellington and Mircoat had gone for drinks. Mircoat had been caustic for much of the night before finally cornering Wellington about the missing funds, quickly and aptly accusing him of the misappropriation of thousands of others. That was when Mircoat demanded in on the scheme, demanding half of the money or else be acquainted with a jail cell.

They agreed to meet separately at Wellington's office that night while the world was still black, and the barbiturate was slipped in his drink before leaving. Of course, Wellington had gone home instead and gotten sleep, whereas Mircoat had gotten very dead.

The seed of a case always sprouted from one of two things: love or money.

"Tell the morgue bird that I'm sorry about dinner," Wellington had said. "She's a good girl. You're right to be in love with her."

The chair had toppled cacophonously to the floor with the violence of his exit. Lestrade had found him not long after and Sherlock conveyed through one look that words on that subject would never be shared _and if you know what's good for you, you'd forget they were ever uttered._

That feeling. It was too new for him to comfortably brand it as love, but he'd no basis for comparison, not on this level. If he had to apply a word to it, he'd say it felt raw, but thus far was ineffable.

Molly appeared in another dream. They were working together, not in a lab, but in the kitchen at Baker Street, surrounded by flasks and cylinders and gentle wordless music from the radio. He pulled her close and kissed her lips like it was second nature, and when he woke in the morning, for the first time in his life, he'd reveled in the after feelings.

Tonight, Molly had a date with an incarcerated man. Seeing as that made a recipe for being stood up, Sherlock encountered two ways of solving the problem.

He could tell her everything and then watch her face collapse in disappointment as she contemplated returning the dress she'd been so pleased with. The fact that she'd been becoming involved with a narcissistic financier had nothing to do with said disappointment.

Or...

Well, he'd appointed himself as suited enough to look out for her, hadn't he?

That night, after a long shower and a close shave, Sherlock donned his best shirt and his finest suit. Coat wrapped around him like armor and feeling as if the world was his to conquer, a cab to Locanda Locatelli was hailed.

The lights of London glittered past like a fallen night sky. Tourists and locals milled along the expensive streets, many dressed in finery as they waited for a seat in their choice dining establishments while the sidewalks were washed with the warm glow of open businesses and street lights.

Sherlock hesitated at the entrance to the restaurant before re-steeling himself and going inside, giving the name of Wellington. As they took his coat, he saw her, sitting at a small table with her handbag in her lap as she fidgeted nervously. He couldn't understand why she'd be so self-conscious, not when she wore that soft indigo dress with her hair falling around her shoulders.

A large, flowery bow in the same shade of blue was clipped to the side of her head. It lessened the effect of elegance the dress would otherwise provide, but it added a quality of Molly-ness to it that was twice as beautiful.

He'd been so unaware of beauty until a time had come when he was no longer unaware of her.

The feeling in his chest caused his hands to ball. It was a far cry from the way he'd felt when departing from the flat. But, Sherlock Holmes was a creative man, and good at disguise, so he slipped through the dimly lit room of foodie connoisseurs to Molly's table and, when her head was turned, asked "is this seat taken?" even though he knew the answer was "no".

Molly turned so quickly she might've suffered whiplash. He lowered himself primly to the chair across her as she stared at him, mouth agape and quite stunned until she waved her hands in panic. "W-What are you doing here? You can't sit there, I'm waiting for-"

"-He's not coming."

Slowly, pulling her hands back to herself, her expression hardened. "Why?"

"A murder charge and monetary theft, among other things."

The horrified look on her face lasted all of five seconds, which was good, because Sherlock hadn't wanted to bear the unfortunate news to her in the first place. She slumped in her seat, sullen, before bringing her hands up and covering her face with a wretched sigh and Sherlock was ready to panic if any tears were produced.

A few people looked over.

"Molly?" Sherlock reached over a moiety of the table before she composed herself, the makeup used to conceal her bruise dusting her palm.

"It was Marcus Mircoat, wasn't it?" she asked glumly. "Did you know it was Andrew who did it?"

"Yes."

"You knew as soon as you saw him."

He wanted to lie. "I had a ...hunch."

Molly snorted derisively. "You don't do 'hunches', Sherlock, you either know or you don't. Why didn't you tell me after you'd spoken with him?"

"It was obvious when we first met. He evaded questions I didn't even ask. How did you _not_ notice?"

"Was sort of on my phone at the time," she replied angrily. "The only thing that's come out of your mouth since the body rolled in was '_got those tox screens, Molly?_' Well, it's not as if _you'd_ care I was dating a killer anyway, not like it's the first time, right?"

"Of course I'd care," he shot back, offended, because if only she'd known the thoughts of her that had been propagating in his mind, he'd prove that he cared, indeed. "You could have told me you'd been seeing someone," he added.

"It was one lunch date and none of your business!" she countered vociferously.

More people looked over and Molly, embarrassed, quickly became distressed by the attention. Sherlock smoothed his jacket as he tossed a pugnacious glare at the collective, saying loudly, "Haven't you people got food to eat? And you, just hurry up and propose, she's obviously been waiting several years..."

A few gasps from the audience.

And Molly... Molly had buried her face in her arms, glued to the table like she was trying to disappear into the cloth, shaking silently.

_Congratulations, Sherlock. You can add this to your many failings in relation to Molly Hooper._

A loud snort erupted from the nest of her arms and Sherlock realized that she was not, in fact, crying. No, she was laughing. She was laughing raucously and wailingly. The table shook with the force of it.

She raised a red-faced head up to look at him, tears dripping at the corners of her eyes and all Sherlock could do was begin chuckling along with her. "Oh," she wiped at her eyes, "Someone's coming over..."

Which was true. Staff were approaching. "Well," said Sherlock, "If they're coming to take our orders then it's about time, but I have experience in being removed from these sorts of establishments, so..."

"We're being kicked out."

He made a confirming noise before they burst into another round of inappropriate giggles.

* * *

Later, after getting into a cab with the intent to see Molly home, Sherlock had changed his mind and they'd found themselves at Angelo's instead. It was a far more comfortable atmosphere and the portions heftily dished, thank goodness, because Molly really was hungry and Sherlock hadn't eaten in three days despite the case's conclusion the previous afternoon. It would be lying to say that their dinner was easy and full of conversation, because the truth was that they'd been too ravenous to string five words together.

"Are you very upset about your date?" Sherlock asked as they walked in the direction of Molly's flat, the world around them quietly colored in black, blue and gold reflections.

A long quiet suspended in the air as Molly contemplated. "Not really. Honestly, it's been a while since Tom, and I haven't had a date so it seemed like a good idea. New flat, new me, all that stuff. But I wanted to dress up and be treated like...I don't know," she sighed.

"Like?"

"Like I was wanted. Sorry, that sounds stupid." Molly laughed awkwardly, hands bunched in her coat.

Sherlock wanted to say that she was more wanted than she knew, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. The feeling of wanting was still so fresh and new for him that he'd barely realized the feeling was there at all.

"I mean, it was stupid," Molly insisted. "I didn't even like him."

She'd also never know just how pleased Sherlock was to hear _that_. He knew Molly had the probity to see through the ridiculous facade of a man like Wellington and call it, or at least, she was certainly being a better judge of character than previous romantic exploits.

"I'm learning to enjoy not being in love," she added. "I think I'm quite done with men."

That...was not what Sherlock wanted to hear. He had to remind himself to continue walking, lest he grind to a noticeable halt. "Are you?"

"Yes. Maybe I've finally outgrown the hopeless romanticism. I'll wait and if someone comes along, maybe it'll happen, but I'm tired of looking and hoping and thinking that I feel something when maybe I really don't. I'm tired of hoping for something when it turns out I'm not worth much, after all. All the heart break ends up feeling self-inflicted. S'not worth it. Here's my new place."

They stopped in front of an old building (what wasn't old in London?) of perhaps six flats, the steps few, as they led to the front door. Molly was digging for her key and hopping up the steps in her short heels when she said, "Perhaps I should be a little more like you, huh?"

And then he was on the stairs, reaching the top in two strides and holding Molly by the shoulders. Her neck craning back to see him, and he said, "Don't. Don't stop being you, Molly. Don't ever stop caring. Despite what you say, you're worth far too much to ever be unloved. You're worth..."

Her eyes blinked owlishly at him. Very gently, he touched where he knew her bruise to be and she sucked in a breath.

"You're worth far more than you'll ever know. So, don't. Don't let anyone say otherwise, not even me. And if anyone, _anyone_, ever lays a hand on you again, you tell me. Or tell _someone._ Do you understand, Molly?"

Frightened would be a good word to describe her right now, Sherlock thought, but perhaps that had more to do with his uncharacteristic surge of tenderness than her believing him capable of harm. Of course he wouldn't harm her. That would be terribly conflicting with what he'd just told her.

His thumb grazed over the little pink scar on her cheekbone where the makeup still wouldn't stick, and he leaned down and pressed his lips there. "Goodnight, Molly."

For the rest of the night, an alternate scenario played in his head, one where he'd kissed her on the lips instead of her cheek, where he'd followed her upstairs to her flat. There'd still be boxes of her possessions scattered and stacked and he'd help sort them and alphabetize her books while drinking coffee.

He'd been mistaken, surely. Molly wasn't the one frightened; _he_ was. Because suddenly there was a whole host of things he wanted for himself that he'd never wanted before, things he'd been closed off to. Things he might've still been closed off to if it hadn't been for two long years of loneliness and another year and a half of watching his friends moving along without him as the centerpiece in their lives.

He'd learned that he needed friends. Now he wanted more.

What a wonderful, terrible feeling that was. Wonderful because it was new. Terrible because it was frightening.

Terrible because it seemed Molly had given up on him. Worse yet, Molly had given up on him long ago, time enough to choke the embers that had once been flames burning for him, when he'd foolishly thought himself so exalted that those flames would never be extinguished.

A CCTV camera mounted on a building across the street watched him. Sherlock looked stonily at it before he yanked on his coat collar and walked away.

Since that night, Sherlock rearranged his mind, his priorities, and his feelings (now that he could admit to having them). Days went by. Long hours on the sofa drifted with the waning of sunlight through the windows, a myriad of colors creeping across the floorboards. Mrs. Hudson puttered around him, as evidenced by the tea tray lingering beside him and the lemony scent of furniture polish on the table.

Eventually, he went for a long walk along the Thames. A bench faced the murky length of water and he sat, looking like everyone else, like any normal man puffing on an overdue cigarette and needing to succumb to a long think. Except he'd been thinking for days and thinking months' worth of thoughts.

A black car without so much as a speck of dirt on its undercarriage pulled over behind him. Sherlock took in a deep breath through his nose, sucking in the air as fuel for the strength to deal with, argue, and/or otherwise engage his older brother who was surely curling his lip at being out in public amongst normal people, car door slamming behind him.

The wooden planks of the bench creaked as Mycroft sat beside him.

"Don't you want to wipe the seat down first?" Sherlock asked drily, bumping the ash off his cigarette. "I hear even homeless people sit on these things."

"The suit will be dry cleaned accordingly," was Mycroft's matchingly arid reply.

The silence stretched, and Sherlock would bet that he could keep it going until they were both obstinate skeletons. The downside was the prospect of sharing an afterlife with his brother, but he persevered.

"You must know why I'm here, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "I've heard of your recent dalliances with Molly Hooper and-"

"-Dalliances?" Sherlock scoffed. "If I were doing any sort of 'dallying' as you say, then please elucidate as to the relevance of your opinion on it. We both know what you're going to say."

"Oh, no need to get snappy about it."

"No need to stick your nose in my business every day of my life. I've been pardoned, fully. Why, I'm even allowed to stay outdoors after dark!"

Mycroft gave him a dirty look. Sherlock sucked in through his cigarette, pointedly glaring at the Thames.

In perfect, practiced unison, they said, "_Caring is not an advantage,_" although Sherlock's voice may have been higher in rude mimicry.

"Why must I be forced to remind you of that?" said Mycroft, burdened.

"You're only forcing yourself, as you've been doing for last thirty years." Sherlock dropped the butt of his cigarette and stamped it beneath his shoe as he stood and faced him. "But then I started to wonder. What's more important – really, truly important - advantage or want? Better still, if I want something, would it not be advantageous to obtain it?"

Mycroft's level gaze told him to stop being a child. "I'm sure when you wanted to get high it was remarkably advantageous for your liver."

"Much like baked goods are advantageous for your waistline. Now," Sherlock buried his hands in his pockets, the sadness at not finding another cigarette overriding the pride in his restraint at not bringing two. His voice lowered. "Let's stop pretending that we're not talking about Molly Hooper. I have managed to admit to myself that I care and while it may not be, as you consider, 'advantageous,' pursuing that feeling is what I happen to want. Think of it as an experiment, if that lessens your disgust."

"She's not a drug, Sherlock."

"Oh, like you care what she is," he snarled, suddenly feeling a wave of years' worth of unaddressed animosity cresting over him. "You've criticized me for my occupation, my interests, my friends -yes, I have them- all the while harping about the evils of getting involved, telling me what's good for me since I was a child. You've been holding the stupid period I delved into drugs over my head so that I'd be what? Complacent? Content to remain as miserable as you?"

It was much like talking to a wall, Sherlock realized as he glared at Mycroft's impossibly straight face. His brother blinked very slowly, pulled in a deep breath, and stood.

There might have been a small twitch beneath Mycroft's eye. "I'm not_ miserable_ Sherlock. Neither am I quite as dramatic as you," he informed, dripping enough superiority that Sherlock hoped he'd drown in it.

"Oh, I beg to differ." Sherlock glanced pointedly at the immaculate, expensive vehicle behind his brother.

"You are serious, then?" Mycroft inquired in disbelief. "You have intentions towards that woman which are, in fact, genuine?"

Sherlock hesitated, not because he wasn't sure, but because admitting it to Mycroft (to anyone) was still so alien. "Yes."

"And these feelings would be ...sentimental?"

A smirk developed in that upturned side of Mycroft's mouth that Sherlock wanted to punch. Mycroft was playing a game with him, goading him. He turned away. "Go home, Mycroft," he growled over his shoulder.

"What will Doctor Hooper think of romantic attempts by Sherlock Holmes, I wonder?"

Sherlock whirled around on his heels and stalked menacingly towards his brother until their faces were inches away, Mycroft's eyes betraying only slight alarm but refusing to back down. Sherlock really wanted to hit something as he hissed, "I know you, Mycroft. You will leave Molly alone. You will not visit her, you will not call her, you will not spy on her and you will not interrupt her existence in any way. If you stick your nose in her life the way you do mine, Mycroft, I _promise_ you the incident with Magnussen will be an _inkblot_ compared to the catastrophe I'd make of your reputation in your career and I would devote my life to that."

Mycroft still had that goddamned imperceptible smile, inclining his head ever so slightly. "As I thought," he drawled. "_Sentiment_."

Sherlock pushed away from him and stormed off, strides long and purposeful and angry along the Thames, refusing to deign a glance over his shoulder to see if Mycroft was leaving or not, but he didn't care. No. He didn't care what Mycroft thought. But it was hard, he understood, to shed the years of unacknowledged control that had been planted in his skull.

It was frustrating.

It was also liberating.

Because now Sherlock could admit that he cared in a way that was entirely new and maybe a little thrilling and a lot terrifying. And if ever there was a time to secure the affections of Molly, it was now, before anyone else decided to sweep in and carry her beyond his reach.

The biggest issue, he knew, was how to assure her of his honesty in this. Sherlock was good at lying, but in this raw feeling, he was honest if nothing else. He would have to be slow. He would have to be patient. He would have to be aware of his behavior. He would have to be kind to her.

Sherlock Holmes was meticulously scientific, but surprisingly creative with his experiments. This was _not_ an experiment, but if it were, then he couldn't wait for the results.

* * *

The end, etc, etc. And thank you for your time!

Next up: A Kindled Man


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